


dancing on glass

by riahk



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Dance Dance Revolution - Freeform, Dancing, F/M, In which Sylvain is depressed and probably Dorothea too, Mature rating for alcohol and references to sex, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26818792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riahk/pseuds/riahk
Summary: Sylvain and Dorothea are two crises running in parallel.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23
Collections: DoroVain Weekend 2020





	dancing on glass

**Author's Note:**

> A late entry for Dorovain Weekend 2020, for the day 2 prompt 'dancing'. The title is taken from the song 'Dancing on Glass' by St. Lucia, which is a great song - and I recommend listening to it while you read this. Enjoy!

**I.**

Sylvain is having a crisis, but he is the last one to know it. At the moment, he is still oblivious, though he is aware of one thing: he is the uncontested king of skee-ball. The plastic trophy from last year’s holiday party still sits proudly on his desk, the cheap gold sheen already peeling. He remembers the moment like it was yesterday.

He doesn’t remember how he got here, or the beginning of this conversation.

“Anyway, I had another lackluster date this evening. I’m really having terrible luck lately,” he says, finessing his final ball up the ramp and into the center hole. Jackpot.

Felix is in the next lane over. He rolls, hits the gutter. Unlike Sylvain, he is absolutely abysmal at skee-ball. “Have you considered,” he begins, ignoring the rest of his game and looking at Sylvain. “That perhaps Dave and Buster's is not particularly conducive to romance?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Nonsense. It has a bar,” he says. After a pause: “It has an arcade.”

This time it’s Felix’s eyes that roll. “Of course. What else is there?”

—

It’s the colors, the lights, the sounds. The dramatic flair of the announcer’s voice from the fighting and racing games; the cheesy dialogue in the on-rails shooters, narrating unskippable cutscenes that nobody actually pays attention to. It’s about matching the little arrows as they fly across the screen, moving in time to a hyper-active electronic beat.

There are no Dance Dance Revolution competitions anymore — not here, anyway, and not often enough to matter — but Sylvain thinks he’d be the uncontested king of that, too. He steps up to the machine, selects a song from the massive library — a compilation of over a decades' worth of music — and puts it on expert difficulty. His feet move on their own, unburdened by his brain. Too much thinking and he’ll lose the flow, so Sylvain shuts off the thought faucet. It’s something he’s gotten very good at.

A score flashes in his face, flourished by an unbroken combo. Not his best, but he’s not warmed up or in the mood to try very hard right now. All good. He admires the records for this song in particular, the cheeky ‘SYL’ hovering at the top spot.

Except it does not say ‘SYL’ in the top spot today. “What the hell,” he says, performing a melodramatic double-, triple-take. The unfamiliar player signature taunts him: ‘DOR’, in pink blocky font. He is simultaneously filled with jealousy and excitement, irritation and curiosity. The investigation begins with him playing through three more songs, looking for the new letters. Then another three until Sylvain is tired of dancing. ‘DOR’ has been busy, because they have the top score on half the tracks he plays through.

Sylvain leans his forehead on the side of the machine, not caring who sees. Not caring that, in the grand scheme of things, this is a dumb hill to die on. But he needs to know. “Who are you?” he mumbles into the cabinet, before Felix finds him and they both walk home.

—

He is seated at the bar, his elbow leaning on the marble and his chin resting on his knuckles. The woman next to him is pretty, though not particularly talkative. Sylvain is fairly sure he’s bothering her and she’s too polite to stop him. Her friend is in the bathroom, because unlike him, most people don’t come here by themselves. The mai tai next to him is half empty.

“Are you sure I can’t get you another one of those?” he asks, motioning to the cylindrical glass in front of her, the giant ice cube slowly melting under the recessed lights.

“No, really, it’s alright,” she says, just as she is saved by her friend returning. They exchange a glance, and the friend scowls at him before they leave. Sylvain sighs, brings the straw to his mouth and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

The bartender-slash-waitress approaches, her dark brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail and her green eyes directed at the emptied cocktail. “Round three?” she asks, humor in her voice.

Sylvain nods, glances at her name tag. “Yes, please. Thanks, Thea.”

She makes it in front of him, her motions precise but robotic. Ten screens are on behind her, all sports. Sylvain checks the highlights, but nothing piques his interest. He returns to watching her, and the question leaves his mouth without thinking: “Hey, do you have any idea who’s been setting all those high scores on the DDR machine?”

There’s no indication that she heard him; her hands reach for a slice of pineapple to wedge onto the edge of the glass. She plops a straw in and slides it over, shaking her head sympathetically. “Can’t say I do. Sorry.”

He shrugs, taking a sip and picking a television at random. It’s an advertisement, but it’s more exciting than the actual program. “Thanks. It was worth a shot.”

—

Adrenaline runs through his veins, his eyes following the blindingly fast final sequence as his feet thud against the metal and plexiglass. Sylvain nearly collapses onto the railing in a huff after the ending freeze arrow completes, waiting the agonizing five to ten seconds as the score screen loads. His best so far in this set, but it is not enough. “No,” he pants, seeing that he is still off from the current mystery champion’s lofty numbers.

A figure passes behind him, and he catches her reflection in the screen as it momentarily goes black. Same plain uniform, same austere ponytail, but a new pair of dangly earrings each time. Tonight they’re pale pink roses, thin strips of imitation gold hanging off the base of the petals and catching the light as she walks purposefully, a basin of dirty glasses in her arms.

He notices her stopping, but does not realize it’s for him until she speaks to the back of his head. “Still trying?” she asks, voice playful; he wasn’t aware she was so invested in his efforts.

“Practice makes perfect,” he says, turning to face her. And he has plenty of time to dedicate to practicing. Though he’s been at it for a week now, and he’s beginning to wonder if he should be spending his time on something more productive.

She eyes him curiously. “Are you going to be here until closing tonight?” The question is a formality; whenever he visits alone, Sylvain is just about always here until closing. He nods anyway. Thea steps closer, placing a hand on the railing. Her voice drops low. “If you hang around long enough, you might just see something that interests you,” she says.

Before Sylvain can ask for further elaboration, she’s walked off.

—

At 9:50 PM the announcement system informs all its patrons that they will be closing in ten minutes. It’s a Tuesday night and there are not many visitors still around, but most of them begin gathering their things and making any last-minute prize purchases. The crowd filters out, some with soon to be forgotten teddy bears and bouncy balls and finger-traps in tow.

Sylvain approaches the bar, because the chime also means last call. The seats around him are empty, and he spots Thea wiping down the counters. “Hey, Sylvain,” she greets him without looking. She’s very good at being indirect, comfortable with being detached. But mostly he just imagines she’s tired.

He decides to stop speculating about the waitress he barely knows, and gives her a slow wave. "Could I get a glass of water, please?"

"Of course, sweetie," she says; and though the endearment does not sound forced, he's still aware of how fake it is. Thea walks the glass over to his side of the counter, then proceeds to lift the surrounding barstools up and stack them upside-down on the granite. As mechanically as she makes his mai tais.

Her arm brushes against his as she stacks the stool next to him, the ones she has saved for last. “I take it you’re waiting for something interesting to happen?” she says, softly, the crackling edges of her voice tickling his ear.

“I was told to expect that,” he replies, matching her low volume. “By a certain someone.” He catches her eyes with his own darkened ones, the edges of his lips curving suggestively. Thea’s stiff customer-service persona melts just a bit as she registers his flirting with confusion. And not the playful, sardonic kind.

Sylvain looks away, embarrassed. “Ah. I’ve misread this situation, haven’t I?”

Thea shrugs, leaning against the counter now that her task is complete. It’s two minutes from 10 PM. “An understandable mistake, really. I had to pique your curiosity somehow.” Her eyes scan the floor; folks have been good at clearing out. Aside from the prize counter’s cashier going through his end-of-the-evening routine at the far edge of the room, they are the only two people here.

“Well, you have my attention now,” Sylvain says. “I have absolutely no clue what this could be about.” There’s also a hint of anxiety creeping up his spine, but he doesn’t feel a need to tell her that.

She nods toward the arcade section. “Walk with me,” she says, and begins making her way toward the still-blinking lights of the machines.

They stop silently in front of the DDR cabinet. Thea doesn't miss a beat, pulling a handful of quarters from her back pocket and untying her apron, folding it neatly and handing it to Sylvain. She steps up onto the platform, inserts her change and taps firmly with her foot, entering the song select. Quick clips of each track pour out from the speakers as she scrolls with purpose, finally stopping on one. It's about middle-of-the-road in terms of general difficulty. Sylvain hasn't played it in a while.

"You've still got the high score on this one, right?"

He nods dumbly, though he is beginning to get the feeling she's already fully aware of that. Thea smiles wickedly, stomps down to confirm and sets the level to expert. The music starts up.

It's a jazzy melody, inevitably undercut with synth, and the smooth female vocals are hypnotizing. But not as enthralling as the way Thea dances, tapping lightly across the dance pad. Sylvain admits that it's difficult to look truly graceful when playing DDR, but she comes pretty close, her tied-up hair swinging wildly as she bounces from sequence to sequence. She makes it look easy.

By the time she finishes there are a few loose strands of hair falling around her face and her cheeks are flushed a soft pink. And the score screen gives its verdict: a new record. She pivots around to flash him a smile, before step-cycling through the letters to enter a name. Sylvain watches as she confirms the signature ‘DOR’.

He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s still in awe of what he’s just witnessed. Thea hops off the platform, holding out a hand. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Dorothea Arnault,” she says. Sylvain, still searching for words, manages to give her a firm handshake. Dorothea leans back against the railing, motioning to the numbers ticking down on the song select screen. “We’ve still got two more rounds in this set; do you want to take one?”

"You got this," he says with a shake of his head. She's teased him with this display, and he wants to see more.

"Sounds good," she replies nonchalantly, selecting a much more challenging track next. "Just in case you thought that first one was a fluke," she points out.

The next two songs are not flukes.

She moves lightning-quick, throws a few spins into the mix. As the final note fades out and the set ends, she motions to Sylvain, taking back her apron and tying it to her waist like nothing has happened. Her light panting and the glimmer of sweat settling on her collarbones is the only indication that he didn't imagine the whole thing. "Damn, that tires me out much more than it did in high school," she mutters, placing a hand on her chest. Her gaze flickers to Sylvain. "Hope you enjoyed the show. I have to finish closing up, so…" her voice trails off expectantly.

"Right. I better be going," he says, following her as she walks in the direction of the entrance. Something weighs on his mind that he can't form properly into words. Suddenly they're at the front door, and his mouth moves without him realizing. "Why did you show me that?" It comes out more accusing than he expects, and he grits his teeth.

Dorothea only looks slightly taken aback. "Well, it isn't that common to meet someone else who's as into DDR as I am," she says. "And you looked so frustrated not knowing who was beating all your scores, so I thought you deserved to know who your secret rival was."

He laughs, relaxing. She doesn't seem angry, or bothered to talk to him, and that's something. "Rival? Is that what you are?"

"If you don't want one, I guess we can go back to being complete strangers," she suggests, and her eyes drift away.

"Certainly there are other options," Sylvain says.

Dorothea is still lost in another thought, staring back at the bar. Then her attention snaps back to him. "Also, tomorrow is my last day working here. So it was now or never," she says, squeezing the muscles between her neck and shoulder.

"Oh," he breathes, feeling a disappointed pang in his chest. He recovers quickly with a smile. "But this is one of the only places with a DDR cabinet for miles, so maybe we can still be rivals?"

Her green eyes narrow, as though she is scrutinizing him. She lets out a contemplative hum before reaching into her apron pocket, procuring a notepad and a ballpoint pen that she clicks open. As expected of a waitress, her hand flies quickly and effortlessly across the paper; she tears off the page and slips it into Sylvain's chest pocket with a gentle pat. "My number," she says, as if any extra elucidation was needed.

He watches her mischievously. "I thought I misunderstood the situation," he replies with a raised brow.

"You did. I just changed my mind." She waves to the door. "Now really, I need you to head on out so I can finish closing up."

Sylvain resists the urge to immediately pull the note out of his pocket; he's reluctant to even touch his shirt. "Well, thank you for sharing your dancing with me. It was an honor, Dorothea," he says, tilting his body forward in an almost-bow.

She returns the motion. "Until next time, Sylvain."

It isn't until he is out the door and halfway to his car that he realizes he never formally told her his name.

**II.**

Dorothea is having a crisis, and she is the only one who knows. That is exactly how she likes it. Who would be able to tell, anyway, that underneath the razor-sharp wings of her eyeliner, or the deep, iridescent plum of her lipstick, she has grown so terribly tired of smiling? And who would she want to tell, when it is that carefully calibrated curl of the lips that enchants and inspires everyone so well?

No, that is information she does not feel the need to share with anyone. Certainly not with the man standing patiently on her doorstep, unaware that she is watching him through the spyhole. She relishes this chance to observe him freely, without having to temper her reaction. Without suppressing the involuntary cascade of shivers she experiences when she imagines his hands gracing her skin. It is these moments of anticipation that she simultaneously loves and loathes, because her imagination is almost always loftier than reality.

And Sylvain is beautiful, even through a tiny glass scope, but Dorothea knows from personal experience that looks are an easy mask to hide behind. She suspects that like her, his effortless grin is just the tip of the iceberg. Whether it is a tangled mess or a well-woven tapestry beneath the surface is something she has yet to discover — if he even allows her to get that far.

Enough thinking, she tells herself. More doing. She's made him wait a realistic thirty seconds at the welcome mat, and now she reaches out to turn the knob. Slowly at first, as though she's still mentally preparing herself while she swings the door open and comes face-to-face with her date. Time accelerates to a normal pace again.

"Hey, you," she says with a waggle of her eyebrows. Dorothea is now officially out of her head and in the present moment. Her purse is already slung across her shoulder, her jacket draped across one arm. "I hope you're ready for a wild night."

—

It is the first time they've seen each other since the night she played her hand (so to speak), though they’ve been exchanging messages over text for weeks. Sylvain’s family name precedes him, but she’s managed to learn several things about his individual person.

First, that he is a freelance writer and web developer and one other thing that she has forgotten; whatever it is he does, it sounds like he barely spends more than ten hours a week doing it. Which she can’t help but be envious of. Second, that he is an avid reader and patron of the arts. Half their correspondence has been discussing their favorite stage plays and exchanging music recommendations.

Finally, and most notably, Dorothea has found it incredibly difficult to get Sylvain to talk about himself. From her past experience with rich men, this is easily his most shocking quality. It’s almost refreshing, but the mystery has her on edge.

There are no arcade cabinets where they are going, but there is dancing. From her apartment they catch a ride downtown, rolling up to the curb of a narrow side street, where the crowds are thinner and the commotion of Friday evening plays off in the distance. An eclectic combination of establishments line the sidewalk: a laundromat (currently closed), a 24-hour donut shop (currently full of young professionals drunk from their work happy hours), two different restaurant lounges (one with fire pits flickering warmly on the patio, the other with string lights hung between every possible vertical structure).

Between one of the restaurants and the donut shop, an unassuming metal door is nestled into the facade of a darkened building. Only one flickering neon sign, spelling out 'BLUES' (oddly enough, it is colored seafoam green) hints that there is more beyond. Dorothea leads Sylvain to the entrance, knocking seven times. “I know this seems a bit sketchy, but bear with me.”

A short moment passes and the door swings open slowly; a young woman steps out, dressed in a dark purple cocktail dress and adorned with colorful jewelry. Her bare arms are covered in tattoos. “Dorothea,” she says with a smile. “You made it tonight.” Light brown eyes flicker up to the man beside her. “And you brought a guest.”

They slip through the door as he gives her a wave. “I’m Sylvain.”

“Petra,” the other woman responds flatly, and Dorothea steps ahead of them to the next set of doors. She knows the way down; she’s been here so many times she’s lost count.

The stairwell is dimly lit, its walls covered in graffiti and stickers; as they descend, the pumping of a subwoofer vibrates from the basement, and the melody of a saxophone plays through the walls as they approach the final door. Dorothea flashes Sylvain a smile before they pull the knob, flooding their ears with a haunting blues melody.

She takes his hand daintily as they step into the room, small enough that Sylvain can see everything from the entrance. The whole club is washed in a low orange light, the brightest source being the illuminated bar cabinets opposite where they currently stand. A dance floor stretches across the center, surrounded on one side by dark velvet booths and on the other by tall circular tables set up next to a stage, where a live band is playing.

Dorothea notices Sylvain staring in awe, and places a hand to the small of his back. The other sweeps gracefully across the room. “Welcome to Aigle Noir,” she says. “Shall we get a drink first?”

He nods, and they circle the perimeter of the dance floor, taking in the scene as they approach the bar. There are never too many guests here, but enough pairs glide across the dark wood to require them to stick to the edges. A tall man with dark curls, dressed up in a matching raven-colored suit, bumps Sylvain’s shoulder lightly as they walk. “Is that…?” he begins to ask, looking back as the man settles into a booth next to a woman with piercing violet eyes.

“Hubert von Vestra, yes,” Dorothea replies, still leading him by the arm. “And that’s Edelgard von Hresvelg with him. They own the club,” she adds. They settle into the stools on the bar, and she orders them two old-fashioneds. “You can drink more than just those fruity cocktails, right?” she asks, her raised brow daring him.

“Of course,” he scoffs, but he’s holding a tension in his upper body that’s persisted since he picked her up, and intensified when they spotted Hubert. Though she suspects it’s neither the other man nor her drink choice that’s bothering him.

Dorothea runs a hand along his back. “Relax, Sylvain. I know they have a reputation, but they have good hearts,” she says, just as their drinks are placed in front of them.

“I’m sure they do,” Sylvain responds softly. “That’s not it, though. I just haven’t been out in a while,” he says.

“Other than the arcade, you mean?”

His head shakes. “Not even there. I think I finally got sick of it,” he says, taking a sip of his drink.

“Sick of trying to beat my high scores, you mean,” she answers with a giggle, and gets a noncommittal shrug in return. “Well, I’m happy to finally be on the customer side of the bar with you,” she adds.

He smiles. “Yeah, it’s nice.” His eyes scan around the room again, taking in the view from this vantage point. “This is pretty much the polar opposite of where we met. I like it.”

“Not completely opposite. It has dancing,” Dorothea points out.

“Real dancing,” Sylvain quips back.

“Hey, you said it, not me.”

She’s seen Sylvain try to hit on girls and fail so many times now, and she’s beginning to see why. He’s much more aloof than the rumors she remembers hearing a few years ago, barely giving her anything to work with. It’s almost frustrating, and she’s almost angry — why would he agree to go out with her if he was just going to act like this?

They sit awkwardly, working slowly on the whiskey in their glasses. Dorothea finally breaks. “Hey,” she says, swiveling in her chair. He snaps out of whatever extra-spatial place he was in, looking at her wide-eyed.

“Yeah?” he asks, innocently, as if he has not been ignoring her for the past minute. She huffs, trying to keep her composure.

“Just look at me,” she commands, leaning an elbow against the bar. Her green eyes stare into his deep brown ones, and she begins to speak as she observes him. “Have you ever been blues dancing?”

He maintains eye contact, which is more than she was expecting of him. “A couple times, yes. It’s been a while,” he says, and his eyes flick away for a split second before returning to her. “Like, a long while. I’m probably pretty rusty,” he says nervously.

“We’ll give you a crash course, then,” she says, and swirls the remaining sliver of liquid in her glass. “In a bit, at least.”

Before they can say any more, one of the men from the band approaches her. “Good to see you back, Dorothea,” he says, giving her a slight bow. “We were hoping you might sing a few songs with us this evening?” he asks. Sylvain turns to face them and embarrassment flashes across his face. “Oh, you’re with someone. I didn’t realize.”

She considers the offer for a moment. Her eyes flick between the two men, and in her peripheral vision she catches Petra stepping out from the bathroom. With a wide wave she beckons her friend over, her palm landing lightly on Sylvain’s knee. She tips her glass back to finish the remainder of her drink and looks to the band member with a gentle smile. “No, it’s alright. One song.”

—

Sylvain was not expecting Petra to be his first dance partner of the evening. But in retrospect he is thankful for it, because his footwork is sloppy and his form needs work. At least now he can get some practice in and not make a complete fool of himself. “You have good rhythm, at least,” Petra says, pushing against his frame and prompting him to straighten up again. He would hope that much is true.

He turns them across the floor, facing the band again. Dorothea is in the back room performing her vocal warm-ups, so it is a stage full of strangers. Not that he knows Dorothea particularly well, either. Petra is making that abundantly clear.

"I'm not sure what you've done, but she is angry with you," she says as she steps back toward him from a spin. Her head is at his shoulder, looking past him. "If I had to guess, I'd say it's that you're too nervous." Her fingers dig into him, and he notices how spring-loaded his shoulder muscles are. "Too stiff. You must relax."

It is difficult for him to hear, especially since he thought he was already relaxed. "She's gorgeous. She loves music and opera and knows exactly what to say, when to say it." Has he realized this all in the moment, or just become conscious of what he already knew? "And she's really, really good at DDR." So good.

Petra rolls her eyes. "You are Sylvain Gautier. Gorgeous women are your specialty, are they not?"

He winces at the statement. Not because she's heard the gossip about him — that he is used to — but because of how everybody still expects him to be that person. Like he has failed otherwise.

"You should tell her."

The song reaches its final few measures. "Tell her what?"

"That you think she is gorgeous. And the other two things," she says, like it is obvious. He can see the door to the back room open and Dorothea strides through, her posture immaculate and her eyes glimmering in the low light. Petra places a hand on his upper arm, turning to watch the other woman. "But first, we make her jealous."

Sylvain looks at her incredulously. "We what?"

Another eye roll. "She's right. You are a bit stupid." He is almost upset, except for the fact that she is spot on. And that it is uplifting to discover clear evidence of Dorothea talking to one of her friends about him. That he exists beyond their last meeting and the words on her screen.

As the song finishes, the previous singer leans into the microphone. "We have a surprise guest appearance tonight. Give a quick hand for Dorothea Arnault." There is light cheering and whooping from the dancers, even a couple from the surrounding tables. "If you've never heard her sing, you are in for a treat. Enjoy it!" She steps aside as Dorothea arrives, giving light waves to the other guests. She catches Sylvain's eye for a split-second, and he watches her lips curl ever so slowly upward.

"Good evening, everyone," she says, her voice silky and lower, breathier than when he was speaking to her earlier. "I've only got one song for you all, so dance your hearts out for me, all right?" She looks back at the band. They count in, but Dorothea sings the first verse without any instrumental accompaniment. It is rich and gravelly and Sylvain feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

_Birds in the sky, you know how I feel_   
_Sun in the sky, you know how I feel_   
_Breeze driftin' on by, you know how I feel_   
_It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life_   
_For me_   
_And I'm feeling good_

The music swells in, and couples are swaying around him. Petra tugs on his arm. "Stop standing there like an idiot and dance," she says. Sylvain moves robotically into his frame, eyes watching Dorothea as well as he can while he leads Petra. They step fluidly, like something has suddenly clicked in his head. Petra cannot hide her excited laughter. "Yes, you're much more relaxed now!" She catches her own glimpse of the singer as she grips the microphone, belting out the lyrics like she is on a much larger stage. "Your problem, it's that you expect everyone to come to you. You have to chase her. Make her want you."

If dancing his heart out with another woman will make Dorothea want him — and he's inclined to trust Petra — then he will absolutely do it. The song is slow and dramatic, and as he finds his groove he is striding them seamlessly across the floor, hitting bends and dips with each dramatic chord. His partner is an excellent follow, but he wishes she was someone else. Dorothea's singing echoes in his ears.

When the song ends it is bittersweet. On the one hand, she is done performing; on the other, he finally gets to dance with her. The crowd gives her another round of applause as she thanks them and steps off the stage. With a soft nudge from the woman at his side he meets her as she leaves. "Oh," she says, her tone soft but closer to what he is used to.

"Your voice is gorgeous," he blurts out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I mean. You're gorgeous. And you have the most elegant way with words," he adds, not sure if the added compliments are helping.

She smiles. "You looked good out there, too. Really got into it," she says. "I guess you're not just a one-trick dance pony."

The band is starting up again. He offers his hand to her with a dramatic bow. "Shall we?"

A laugh escapes her lips, but he feels her fingers slide across his palm. "It would be an honor."

—

They dance like sparks of controlled chaos across the room. Sylvain guides Dorothea fluidly, and she is receptive to even his lightest signal; their hips move in sync, watching each other so closely that everything but the music melts away around them. Occasionally they switch partners, but they always come back to one another. As it turns out, Sylvain is a much better dancer than he is a talker.

After countless songs they take a well-earned break, filling up on water and then whiskey. They lean against each other in their seats, an effortless closeness they are now used to after their round on the dance floor.

"I'm so glad we made it," Dorothea says, her sweat settling in the same dip of her clavicle as when she danced for him in the arcade. "I sing here frequently, but it's been a long time since I've gotten to dance."

Sylvain rests his head on his hand. “And I’m glad I got to witness both,” he says. “This is what I missed about going out.” Dorothea’s eyes shimmer under the light, a curious smile on her face. “Beautiful women and good music,” he specifies, watching her grin widen. She does not try to hedge his compliments, and her confidence washes her in a soft glow.

“What’s been stopping you? From going out, I mean,” she asks, stirring the ice in slow circles around her glass.

He blinks at her. It’s the same wall Dorothea’s been hitting on text, manifested in the way he shifts uneasily in his seat, leaning into his hand enough to grip his bangs between his fingers. "I don't know," he says. "The crippling burden of being alive, I guess?" The words hang in the air for a beat before he laughs them off. "Only kidding. I think I'm just burnt out."

Dorothea's fingers press firmly into the plastic straw in her hand. "Isn't burnout just a gentler way to describe the first thing?" Sylvain makes an uncertain face, once again failing to find the exact right words. She gives his arm a pat. "It's weird. You're a different person out there," she says, gesturing to the dance floor. "On the DDR machine, too."

"Oh yeah?" His voice rises inquisitively, head swirling with questions. "Which one do you prefer?" The way he asks makes Dorothea believe no straightforward answer will satisfy him.

“What, I have to choose? And those are my only options?” Her voice dips low. “It’s normal to be different people in different situations, you know. I do it all the time,” she adds. Her gaze shifts away from the bar. “For example: if we were to go into the back room right now, and no one else was in there but us…” She fixes her eyes back on him. “I wonder what person you would be then, Sylvain.”

He looks at the door, not taking much time to consider it. "Only one way to find out."

**III.**

Sylvain and Dorothea are two crises running in parallel. Dorothea knew Sylvain’s crisis before she even met him. Sylvain is the first, other than Dorothea herself, to know hers. After that, he finally becomes aware of his own.

They kiss in the back room of Aigle Noir. Then in the hallway of Dorothea’s building, on her couch, on her bed. Kisses turn into touching, touching turns into their clothes on the floor and their bodies doing what they are best at. A different kind of dance, where the twirls are done with tongues and met with soft gasps crescendoing into glass-shattering cries and the desperate, satisfying sound of each others’ names.

It is an addictive and determined ballet, a performance they are determined to bring everywhere. After kicking off their tour in her apartment they move on to Sylvain’s, to other shaded rooms in other bars; even once or twice in a copse of trees in the park, their voices hushed and their hearts pounding at the thought of having an actual audience. Day or night, rain or shine, they are always dancing.

The days and nights turn into weeks, the weeks into months. At dawn, somewhere just beyond month three, Dorothea begins to wonder, reluctantly, about how temporary Sylvain will be. It is a question of degrees rather than a consideration of yes or no, because her gut tells her that they are not built to last. Not as they are currently, at least.

‘At least’. She scrubs that phrase out of her head, because all it does is build up her expectations again. Dorothea knows what she wants — something real, solid, stable. Someone who is understanding, who notices her needs and fulfills them, and who communicates their own desires so she can return the favor.

Those guidelines work much better in theory than in practice, and Sylvain really only meets them when the two are in bed. Which, to be fair, is quite often. ‘To be fair’ is another dangerous qualifier she needs to be wary of. Life is so damnably not fair.

He stirs beside her, his chin hooked into the crook of her neck and his breath warm and steady on her skin. Hands squeeze over her stomach, and she runs her own along his forearm to let him know she is awake too. “Thea,” he whispers, kissing her earlobe with his teeth. His blackout curtains weren’t shut properly, which is why a thin sliver of multi-colored sunrise now cuts through and across their sleeping forms.

“Should I close them?” she asks, feeling his mouth migrate up to the cuff of her ear. He pulls away, yawning into her hair.

“Do it quickly,” he says, pulling her tighter against him for a moment before letting go. Dorothea rolls off the side of the bed, standing up right in front of the window and drawing the blinds tighter, glad that she does not have to stumble back too far into the dark. She climbs over Sylvain, snuggling up behind him instead. “Thank you,” he sighs, relaxing back into a simulated night.

Dorothea presses her forehead into his back, the scent of him lulling her back to sleep. As she fades out of consciousness and drops her control, her heart swells with a sort of unburdened euphoria, knowing he is so close. In her dreams, she runs away.

—

Normalcy is still a foreign concept to Sylvain, but he thinks he might be approaching it. It’s Saturday morning and he’s in the kitchen brewing coffee, the news headlines playing softly from the television in the living room. His breath catches when Dorothea wraps her arms around his waist unexpectedly, humming softly. “How’re we doing?” she asks, breaking away as quickly as she appeared and reaching for something in the cabinet.

The butterflies in his stomach are new. “Patience! Your caffeine will be ready soon, milady,” he informs her, playing around with the settings on the machine. He’s been in an experimental mood recently. Next he wants to try making latte art.

Dorothea stands on her tippy toes to bring the cereal box down from the top of the fridge. “I was thinking we could go to the beach today,” she says. “The weather is perfect for it,” she adds, pointing to the weather forecast currently displayed on the TV set.

“There’s a boardwalk there, right?” he asks.

“With an arcade on it,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.

“Someone’s being sneaky,” he teases, hitting the brew button and joining her at the kitchen table. He’s not hungry. “I guess we could drop by there, too.”

She smiles and taps his foot with hers under the table. “I haven’t played DDR since that night, you know,” she recalls.

The coffee machine beeps and he gets up, grabbing mugs from the shelf. “That was a while ago, wasn’t it?” he says, suddenly realizing how much time has passed. He thinks of the night at Aigle Noir too, how new her body was to him back then. How he has a whole detailed map of it in his head now, vivid enough that he could traverse her even with his eyes closed. “Over three months since you took me blues dancing already, too. Damn.”

He returns to the table with their drinks in hand, placing them down softly. Dorothea has a strange expression on her face, something between hesitance and anticipation. “There’s, uh, not an important anniversary or anything I’m missing, is there?” He’s gotten in trouble for that before, from women he didn’t even realize he was actually dating. Wait, has he been dating Dorothea?

Her voice snaps him out of the rapid string of increasingly more concerning thoughts. “Of course not, Sylvain. We’re not even…” she trails off.

They were casually making plans for the day moments ago, and suddenly she looks like she might cry. He definitely feels like he’s messed something up. Instinctively his hand grabs hers. “Hey. Maybe we should have a conversation,” he says. This is his fault, he thinks. For not thinking anything through, like always. Every single thing he can come up with for what is wrong with him suddenly floods his brain.

“Sylvain, are you alright?” Dorothea asks, placing her other hand over his. “You look pale.” He inhales, vaguely aware of her chair pushing out from the table. A hand presses lightly to his forehead. “No fever,” she says, kneeling down beside him. “We don’t need to have a conversation. Maybe you should lie down, though?”

He turns to look at her, bare knees set on the linoleum as her fingers hook into the crook of his arm. “No, it’s alright. Let’s go to the beach,” he insists. Dorothea fixes him with a glare, shaking her head.

“Only if you lie down on the couch for ten minutes,” she says. Her head bends forward, her shoulders shaking with muffled laughter. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, managing to stifle the giggle. “Um, I’m sorry for bringing up something stressful. Come on, lie down.” She rises to stand, attempting to drag his arm with her. When he resists, a grin spreads on her face. “I’ll join you, alright? Come on.”

She’s making him feel like a child, but his reluctance only intensifies the feeling. So he relents, getting up from the chair and walking with her to the large leather sofa in front of the TV. They spread out on the cool cushions, with Dorothea resting her head on his chest. Last time they did this, they were both naked. “Your heart is beating so fast,” she whispers. “Close your eyes and go to your happy place.” Her tone is joking, but it’s not a terrible idea.

“But I’m already there,” he says.

“Mmhm, I’m sure you are.”

“Seriously,” he starts, but his laugh does him no favors. “Whatever.” He runs a hand through her hair, picturing the sad look on her face from earlier. Dorothea isn’t the type to show strong emotion, but now he’s wondering if she’s just been holding back this whole time. He remembers the way Petra had told him, that night, that she was angry with him.

Sylvain may have every inch of her body memorized, but he realizes it’s about time he understands her mind, too.

—

They spend more than ten minutes on the couch, but still eventually make it to the beach. It's warm and humid and full of people, especially as they step across the worn wood of the pier with seventeen different conversations playing out around them. Sylvain thrives on the overstimulation; he's used to it, of course, used to maneuvering through mayhem. He likes to think it's what makes him so good at learning step patterns, and at dancing in general.

With the boardwalk blanketing him in white noise, he tries to learn Dorothea. She walks with the same confidence as always, all traces of the morning's worried lines gone from her face. The closest he sees her get is a grimace as she runs barefoot across the hot sand. It melts into a bright smile once they reach the shore, cool waves nipping at their ankles.

He's so captivated by the way she strides through the water, flecks of seafoam clinging to her skin, that he almost doesn't hear her calling him. "Are you alright with the heat?" she asks, wading in to just below her knees.

"There's a breeze going, so I'm fine," he says, only then noticing how harshly the sun is beating down. “And you know I’ll brave anything if it means seeing you in a swimsuit,” he adds, though it’s unclear whether she hears the latter statement. Which is probably for the best. Dorothea beckons him over with a slow wave, planting a quick kiss on his cheek before kicking water up at him. "Mmm. More of that, please."

She pulls him closer, going for his lips this time. When they pull apart Sylvain keeps his gaze trained on her face, searching for some clue. A vague hint about what's going on in her head, under the surface. Her eyes catch him staring. "What?" she asks, softly with a smirk.

"Nothing," he responds. "You're just cute."

Dorothea's eyes light up at that, but she turns away before he can get a better look. With a hand she shields her eyes from the sun and scans the horizon. “Well, I thought going in the water would help, but it still feels like I’m going to fry,” she says. “Let’s find somewhere with air conditioning and come back later.”

There's an 'are you sure?' on the tip of his tongue, like he's uncertain that's actually what she wants. He's never actually certain what she wants. But he lets her take his hand and walk them back across the beach, trying not to wonder about it.

—

While basking in the artificial cool of the arcade, Dorothea is waiting for something — she just doesn't know what. To call it a sign would be too cliché, not detailed enough. But to give it any more form beyond a gut feeling would be detail that she doesn’t have. She thinks that maybe she wants something, something that she’s buried so deep in her stomach that she’s lost sight of it. She needs to find it again.

Sylvain isn’t watching her while she ponders all this, but she is watching him play skee-ball. He really is quite good at it — she was convinced he was all talk when he spent five minutes heavily embellishing his crushing victories over all his friends, but it's a pleasant surprise to see he can back it up. Still a strange thing to be so proud of, she thinks, but he’s smiling and doesn’t look like he’s on the edge of another panic attack. That makes it worth it.

After rolling his final ball, the machine spews out tickets and he turns around to beam at her while he collects them. “You sure you don’t want to give it a shot?” he asks, flashing two coins between his fingers.

“Positive. I’m terrible at this,” she says.

He takes a step toward her, his neck craning down as he studies her face a bit too intently. “I could give you some pointers,” he says, padding his fingers along her arm.

“I’m sure you could,” Dorothea hums, leaning into his hand. “But I think the dance machines are free now," she adds. Sylvain peeks over her head, in the direction of the rhythm game section to confirm her claim. With an excited smile he slides past her and over to the change machine and fishes a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. “Someone’s excited," she teases.

“Excited to finally get a rematch,” he says. “You said we were rivals, remember?”

She follows behind him as they make their way to the DDR cabinet. “I suppose I did,” she agrees, hopping up onto the dance pad and wiggling her hips as Sylvain feeds quarters into the machine. “But let’s warm up before we get too competitive.” As if they are at Aigle Noir again, she allows him to take the lead. Her head is too busy replaying the past few months of Sylvain, following the steps that brought her to this exact moment.

After that, she’s too busy following actual steps as they fly past her on the screen. She quickly gets a feel for the machine, moving effortlessly to the beat in no time. It’s satisfying to watch the ‘GREAT’s and ‘PERFECT’s add up, colorful words that shoot pure dopamine through her brain. And in the back of her mind — in her peripheral vision, in the faint thuds resounding out in tandem with hers — she's aware that Sylvain is playing through the same song. Together but separate.

When it ends, the first thing Dorothea does is turn left, meeting his eyes as he does the same thing. It is a brief moment where they break out of their respective trances, a quick reminder of the world beyond their blinders. “You wanna pick the next one?” he asks, casually, but it makes her chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Sure,” she says after a brief pause, eyes going back to the screen. She continues the upward difficulty trajectory they’re on, and by the time they finish the set it is to the sound of quickened pulses and heavy breathing. She spots a few turned heads and onlookers, waiting expectantly to see if the show will continue. Sylvain doesn’t seem to notice, his attention too focused on her.

“How’s your doubles game? Might be fun to switch it up a bit,” he suggests.

Dorothea leans back against the railing, intrigued. “I’m down. Do you want to go first?”

Sylvain nods and she steps off the platform, backing away far enough to get a good view and bumping shoulders with another arcade-goer waiting patiently to watch the next round. “I haven’t seen anybody play doubles mode here in forever,” she hears someone whisper.

It’s clear he’s trying to show off when he sets a six-song course, each track blending into the next while he glides across the dance pad, adding in a few freestyle moves to keep things interesting. In the middle of the third stage she approaches the machine, catching his eye for a split-second. “Let me take the next one,” she yells, her voice competing with both the speaker and the burgeoning cheers surrounding them.

“Fine by me,” he says, eyes still on the screen. “Just try not to completely wreck my score, alright?”

She rolls her eyes but decides to let him keep his concentration for the song’s finale. As the music fades out she hops up to the platform, hearing some surprised coos from the growing crowd. “You got this!” Sylvain says, sincerely, behind her as he steps off; then it’s just her, the game, and the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

At the end of the set, the excited voices through the arcade suddenly flood her ears, and she pivots around to see her date still standing by, raising a hand for a high-five. Sylvain laughs and leans down to her ear. “You’re probably used to this, but the audience loves you,” he whispers. She makes out someone in the crowd requesting a duet. The idea gains traction, and soon there is a chant urging both of them back to the machine.

“I think we should give the people what they want,” Dorothea sings, taking him by the hand as she walks back to the screen.

Unlike their warm-up set, when the music starts up this time she is acutely aware of her partner on the opposite side of the platform. She adjusts her moves, adds small flourishes to match him, and he in turn pays attention to the extra spins and claps she inserts into the routine. They are no longer two performers in parallel; the stage is theirs together, and Dorothea is determined to let everyone watching know it. She is determined to let Sylvain know it, too.

This is what she’s been waiting for.

Somehow the cheers are even louder when the two of them finish their final song. Sylvain is right that she is used to it, but Dorothea eats the praise up regardless. She beams at the crowd, giving them an excited wave and noting that several cell phones have been recording. “They really do love us,” she says, turning to Sylvain.

He doesn’t seem as comfortable with everyone watching. It’s not an obvious tell, considering he is still smiling, but she can see his eyes are tired and his mind is somewhere else. The morning’s malaise is returning in full force, and right when she’d finally begun to forget about it.

“Hey,” she says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You look overwhelmed. Do you want to get out of here?”

Sylvain appears surprised at her assessment, but manages a nod; she takes his hand and quietly leads him out to the beach.

—

The sun is low to the horizon, and Sylvain realizes they've missed their chance to swim. But it's the perfect temperature to sit and watch the sky fade, which is what they do. Dorothea links her arm with his, leans into his shoulder and waits for him to speak. They can both hear his heartbeat slow down gradually, eyes fixed on the water.

"I don't know," he says. "Is the answer to the question I imagine you want to ask."

"There are many questions I could ask," she starts. "You'll need to be more specific."

He withdraws his arm from hers, pulling his knees in toward his chest. "I don't know why I was freaking out in there," he elaborates. "It was fun. I'm having fun." A hand runs slowly down his back, all the way to the sand. Then it loops back up and starts again.

"You don't need to explain it," Dorothea says. "No one is happy all the time. I'm definitely not."

But he never sees her unhappy, and he's been with her since yesterday. "I'm happy when I'm with you," he says, turning to face her. The words are foreign coming from his mouth, but they're absolutely true. "Are you?"

Dorothea's brow furrows in thought. "Yes. I would say I am." She sounds like she's just realizing it too. "Happy in general. I'm more talking about moment to moment." Her hand reaches up to play with a loose strand of his hair. "It's alright to tell me when something is wrong, Sylvain. I'm not going to judge you."

The irony of her statement rings in his head, and he can't help but let out a laugh. "You should follow your own advice, Thea." He takes her hand in his, begins drawing circles on her palm. "Because I can tell you've been holding back on telling me what's wrong." His eyes flick back up to her and it's clear that he's hit the nail on the head. One step closer to figuring her out.

She nods, chewing on her lips nervously. "That's… a fair assessment."

He moves closer, until their foreheads are touching. "So tell me."

A long silence settles over them, and he worries he’s asked her to reveal too much. But she finally swallows and speaks. "I want something that lasts," she says. "These kinds of conversations usually don't facilitate that, so I tend to avoid them. Which, inevitably, leads to me ending up with the exact opposite of what I want.” He feels her finger tapping his cheek, like she’s scolding him. Or maybe she’s asking him to prove her wrong.

And he wants to prove her wrong, but he’s not sure whether he can. “Going out with a known playboy does seem like a weird move,” he mumbles. “But as I’m sure you saw, I haven’t really been living up to my reputation lately.”

They’re still so close, and Dorothea tilts her face so her lips hover over his. “And why do you think that is?”

He leans forward, cheeks sliding past hers as he rests his head on her shoulder. “Repression. A lot of repression,” he says, laughing into the crook of her neck. Her arms wrap around him, stilling the tremors running through his body. “And a lifetime of deflecting with humor,” he adds. “Does it matter why? I’m messed up.” He finally returns the embrace, taking hold of her waist and pulling her closer.

“Welcome to the club,” she responds.

“I want to be better.”

“Me too.”

Silence falls, but it is a warm one; it smells like the sea, and like flowers. “Hey,” Dorothea whispers after a while, shifting in his arms. “Let’s dance.”

Sylvain nods, watching as she slides away and rises to her feet. She fiddles with something on her phone, playing a slow song he recognizes but doesn’t know the name of. The song is unimportant; he’s looking at her, anyway, the way she takes his hand and pulls him up to join her. He steadies her hips as her fingers snake around his neck, closing the distance between their bodies as they sway slowly to the music playing out from her back pocket.

He has no more questions left for her, now. She knows they’ll be alright, so long as they keep dancing.

**Author's Note:**

> Between my other writing, the stress of a global pandemic and the copious amounts of personal flavor that went into this story, I very nearly didn't finish it. Big thanks to my brother who, even though he has never played Three Houses, read through this and gave me the last push I needed to complete it! Also big thanks to Dance Dance Revolution, for existing and being such a major part of my life in the last half of high school. Even though I never really got good at doubles or freestyling, it will always have a special place in my heart.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
